England (Part 1)
Our flight left
on Monday. We were grateful that we had paid for Economy Plus in order to get
12 extra inches of legroom. A screaming child behind me kept banging on the back
of my seat, so I took a couple of sleeping pills, put up the armrest and went
right to sleep. Bob and the guy on the other side of me kept waking me up,
poking at me. Bob said I was kicking him. I don't know what form of treachery
and mischief I was commiting upon the guy on the other side. Maybe he was just
the sort who likes poking people. I was pulled aside to be searched at LAX, and we
were momentarily detained at Heathrow. Apparantly I am considered somewhat of a
national threat.
One of the
luxuries of traveling as a grown-up non-backpacker is being able to take the
occasional taxi. We took advantage, and had a comfortable ride to the guest
house. Everything was grey and the sky was hung with ominous, pregnant skies.
The cabbie asked where we were from. "California? You brought the sunshine
with you!" Bed and Breakfasts in
England are not like B&Bs in the US. They are more like flophouses. Guest
houses are like B&Bs without the four-poster beds and Laura Ashley
frou-frou. You get a normal, middle-class guest room, a shared bath and
a decent breakfast. It's kind of like staying with your Auntie Margaret.
We had
a wonderful meal at the Troubadour (no, there were no hair bands there).
Although it was decorated like a pub, with pew-like seats and mugs on the wall,
it was light and airy thanks to large picture windows and a green patio out
back. I had a rich cream of wild mushroom soup, and Bob and I split their
house specialty - a Sirloin hamburger with British bacon on it. We also
split the toffee pudding which was both light and rich at the same time. There
is a magic moment when sugar teeters between caramalizing and burning. They
caught the dessert at that perfect moment.
Everyone was
really chatty and friendly. I had remembered everyone in London as being
brusque and unfriendly. Maybe times have changed. Or maybe it was because I am
older and better-dressed. Or maybe it was because I was still kind of high from
the sleeping pills. We walked through Old Brompton Cemetary so I could photograph the
cool angel statuary, then we were back at the house and asleep by 7pm.
Wednesday
morning we were awakened at 9am for breakfast. We headed off to see the
Universe of Dali. The tube stop was Westminster. It's weird to see such iconic
buildings just kind of hanging out with the rabble. As I moved to pose in front
of Big Ben, a policeman with a very large gun, shouted, "Watch your
back!" I tend to listen to people carrying very large guns, so I jumped
back. I didn't see any cause for alarm, so I said, "What am I watching out
for?" The policeman withtheverylargegun, said, "I was warning
HIM." and gestured towards a policeman without any gun at all. I said,
"What is he watching out for?" The policeman withtheverylargegun
said, "You. I thought you were going to rush him." I am definitely
considered a national threat here for some reason. Too many unpredictable
moves. I guess it might help if I stopped running around shouting,
"Give Ireland back to the Irish!"
The Dali museum is next to the London Eye, a gigantic ferris wheel on a
bicycle-spoke which was bult for the Y2K celebration. It would have been a
great day for it, because as the cabbie had predicted, it was very sunshiney,
but I couldn't see being stuck in one of those pods for 30 minutes, and we had lunch
reservations across town. The Dali exhibit was far better than had been
described in the guide books. They had a number of recognizable statues and
illustrations, but Dali had a penchant for wordiness when naming his artworks,
so I don't remember the names of any of them...there were elephants with insect
legs, and naked ladies with drawers in their chest, and lots of things covered
with melting clocks and ants.
We were having such a great time, we really had to rush to make lunch at St.
John's. St. John's was popularized by Anthony Bourdain. Its motto is "Nose
to Tail Eating" Its menu is primarily based on a double-dog dare. The main
thing I noticed upon entering was that there were only two other women in the
entire restaurant. It was a sea of business suits. The menu changes daily, and
I had been following it on the internet. One of the specialties was
"(extremely offensive anti-gay epithet) and peas". It wasn't on the
menu that day, but I asked, "What is (extremely offensive anti-gay
epithet) and peas?" She said, "We take the belly of a pig, and mix it
with the heart, and innards, and breadcrumbs and thyme, then wrap it in caul
fat". It sounded more like it should be called (offensive anti-Scottish
epithet) and peas". We decided to order mostly starters so that we could
try the largest assortment of weird things without commiting to an entire plate
of it, and then play it safe with a main course of rabbit.
The server steered us away from the rabbit, and was really pushing the ox
heart. Bob looked hesitant, but I figured that was why we were there. And she
was REALLY pushing the ox heart, "It is very thinly sliced, and
charred."
Bob said, " It wasn't really what I was planning to eat today."
"But it is very thinly sliced and charred. It is just lovely."
I asked her if she could do a smaller portion as a starter.
She said "No. We wouldn't be able to sell the other half."
I said, "Wait. You mean it is an ENTIRE ox
heart?" "Yes, but it is very thinly sliced."
We were convinced, and I confessed to Bob, "I did kind of feel like a
pussy just having rabbit." Bob said, "I have a feeling that desire to
not be a pussy is what keeps the roof on this place."
We started with
the gull's egg, eel, langoustines, asparagus, and a marrow salad. The gull's
egg was exactly like a hen's egg, but the yolk as bright orange. The eel
was quite large, not a wimpy little sushi eel. I had a hard time eating it
because it made me think of my brother's pet moray eel. The langostines were
more delicate and sweeter than shrimp or crawfish. They had really hardy
shells. I cut myself on one of them and actually started bleeding.
The oxheart
tastes exactly like tender carne asada at first, but as you continue chewing, you
are hit with a sinister gaminess, a flavor that lets you know that you are now
traveling the dark back alleys of gastronomy...sexy, forbidden, and slightly
ominous.
Bob ordered a
lemon posset, kind of a cross between lemon curd and custard. It was so intense
it made you gleak and screw your face up into a grimace. But like a bruise you
can't stop poking, we couldn't stop eating it. Who knew that the most
adventurous thing we would eat there would be the dessert?
As I took a picture of their bakery, a passing waiter commented, "It's
lovely, isn't it? I mean, she's lovely. I guess it's a she." I said,
"Well, in French it's le boulangerie, so maybe it's a he." he
retorted quickly and offhandedly, "F*ck the French. What the f*ck do they
know?"
After lunch
Wednesday, we had the misfortune of riding the tube during rush hour. Here was
the cold, unfriendly London I had remembered. Londoners propel themselves
through tube stations with the ferocity and total disregard for personal safety
of third world taxi drivers. At one point a woman actually climbed over me as
if I were an inanimate object. I wanted to scream, I am not an auditoreum
seat!" As we exited the tube to Camden market, I felt someone shove me. I
turned around and it was a five-year-old child!
I was
disappointed to discover that Camden market was not longer a giant flea market,
but had basically become something akin to a series of Hot Topic stores. We headed straight for
Soho. We took a quick look at Picadilly Circus, just because I love that
scene in "American Werewolf in London".
As we walked
along Wardour Street, we passed many chic Japanese restaurants full of
attractive people with expensive haircuts. We were headed to the least hip
restaurant possible - Swiss. I had been to St. Moritz Swiss Restaurant on my
last trip to London and fell in love with their raclette. We had planned on
having raclette and a ragout of wild mushrooms to start, split a main dish
to kind of have a break from cheese, then have a fondue. The waitress advised
us against that quantity of food, and somehow we ended up with the raclette,
mushrooms, and fondue. Raclette is Swiss cheese cooked on a hot plate until it
is bubbling and crispy. It is like just the top off of macaroni and cheese. The
wild mushroom ragout was generous with morels, so we were happy. As we feasted
on the raclette, Bob warned ironically, "Don't fill up on bread and
cheese."
Insane Swiss
polka music blared from the speakers while the two waitresses just stood there
staring at us in the now-deserted restaurant. Then the fondue arrived - a huge,
bubbling cauldron of Gruyere and Emmenthaler, heavy on the Kirsch. It was
fantastic. After about four bites, I looked over at the waitresses, just
staring, unimpressed with our cheese-eating prowess. I made Bob an offer,
"I will pay for this and another meal if I can please stop eating cheese
now." He happily accepted and we headed to the nearest chic Japanese place
for a light meal of noodles and sushi. Wardour Street in Soho is a litle like Bourbon
Street in New Orleans. It is a circus of drinking to excess, gambling, S&M
shops and peep shows. We hailed a taxi and headed home, our only vice
being an orgy of melted cheese.
Thursday we decided it
would be too much to try and visit the Tate Modern. We returned to the
Troubadour for a leisurely breakfast. It's such a friendly place, with a real
neighborhood feel. It is also a folk venue where many live albums have been
recorded and its facade graces a number of folk rock albums. Bert Jansch, Bob Dylan,
and Jimi Hendrix have all played there.
The train to
Rye took about 2 1/2 hours through rolling hillsides blanketed with yellow
flowers and dotted with grazing sheep. I remember when I first saw the album
cover for Ram. I remember thinking, "Man, Paul McCartney lives in the
middle of nowhere." Well, that is where we were heading, about six miles
from that very farm. Rye is called 1066 country because that is when it was
rebuilt after being burned down by the Normans (Hence the pervasive "Fuck
the French" sentiments). As the train rumbled along, the conductor called
out the various stops, "We are now entering Hastings." When she
called out, "We are now entering Battle", Bob exclaimed with alarm,
"Oh no!"
When we arrived
in Rye, we stocked up on groceries and headed for Camber Sands Holiday Park.
Jon, Steve, and Doug were already there waiting for us. I had expected the
holiday park accomodations to be like condominiums, but they were more like
army barracks. The swimming pool and go-karts were closed down (so John Doe was
off the hook...for now). We were just across from the beach, and seagulls
swooped over our heads, screaming like angry felines. I turned to Bob, "Oh
no! It's the monkey's paw! It's because we ate their eggs!!!" So every
time a gull came at us squawking, Bob would intone solemnly,
"Give...me...back...my...eggggs."
I made a big
pot of chili in the little kitchen, then we headed down the street to the local
pub. I overheard some locals talking about catching shrimp by throwing nets
right off the beach. I was intrigued, "You don't even need a boat?"
One of the guys said, "No, you just call, 'Ouissshhhh, ouissshhh' and they
come right to you."
I played along, "You don't have to buy special shrimp 'calls'?"
A woman responded, "No, but you have to call more like this...'kreeeee
kreeeee kreeeeeeee.' How do you catch them in the States?"
"Oh, we use wooden shrimp decoys and they swim right up to
them."
The guys were
still jet-lagged, so we left our new friends and stumbled back to the chalet
around midnight.
Friday morning
all of the other bands started rolling in. ATP is set up so that bands each
"curate" one day of music. Friday Mudhoney chose the bands, Saturday
was the Yeah Yeah Yeah's day, and Sunday was curated by Davendra Banhart. So
there was an interesting mix of alt-rock and folk.
As Mark (from
Mudhoney) later pointed out, the bands were chosen on musical ability, not
marketability, and there were no promotional or merch booths other than for the
bands themselves. So the whole weekend was really pure in focus. It was also
nice having your own place 3 minutes from the venue for a shower or snack
break. And since everyone had that luxury, the facilities weren't overused and
trashed, like at most rock festivals. Everyone there was nice, from the guards
to the food service workers. It was a great vibe all-around. The only thing to
complain about, if at all, was that the food service was excellent and they
only fed you on the day that you played. So you had to smell all of the yummy
food that you couldn't eat. But I had come prepared to cook, so we were better
off than most.
We saw the
Mudhoney guys and Flesheaters at breakfast. DJ Bonebrake remembered me, and Lynn
(who I think is Chris' wife) was telling me about some cool movie about
underground-dwelling monsters. Marea's friend, Helen, showed up and hung out.
The first act
was David Dondero, a solo guy with a guitar. he was a musical genius, and
totally hilarious. His lyrics were something like, "...and all the parents
and their children were on the Golden Gate Bridge (though it's really more of
an orange vermillion), and I said to this kid, 'Hey kid, do you want to see a
trick? It's a really neat trick.' and then I jumped off the Golden Gate
Bridge." The Country Teasers immediately grabbed me and would not let go.
They reminded me of the Residents, one of my favorite bands in the world.
The Amadans
were red-hot and brought the house down. All weekend people were coming up to
compliment them. Bob was really happy to see the Scientists because they never
play the US, and they rocked. It was too crowded and smoky for me to watch
Comets on Fire.
The Flesheaters
blew my mind once again. I used up my entire photo card. When it is finally
recognized as a valid union, I will marry that band. Dave Alvin is really cool
and controlled, so the juxtoposition with John Doe's rubberiness is
interesting. Next to Dave Alvin, John Doe looks like he doesn't have any bones
in his body at all. At one point, Dave Alvin faltered, and John Doe laughed and
pointed to the ground, where the sheet music lay next to Dave's pedals.
Bob and I gave
them a little time to decompress before going backstage to congratulate them.
Bill Bateman, DJ Bonebrake, and Steve Berlin were in the mood to hang out. But
John Doe and Dave Alvin were in a rush to get away from the crowd ASAP. I think
fame must be the worst curse in the world. Eddie Vedder once told Bob,
"You know how when you smoke too much pot and you think everyone is
staring at you? Well, it's like that, but they really ARE all staring at
you." Helen and I blabbed at DJ, and Bill told us an intense story about a
bullet being deflected by a crash cymbal and saving his life when a fight broke
out at a show.
We went
upstairs with Steve Berlin to watch Mudhoney. He had a big cigar, and I asked,
"Cuban?" He said, "Yeah. Neil Diamond gave me these
cigars." I said, "Wait a minute. You smuggled Cuban cigars OUT of the
United States INTO England?"
After the show,
David Dondero was hanging out in our room. He is our new best friend. The
subject turned to New Orleans, and after awhile I started to get really
depressed, so I went looking for Bob. I found him down in Mudhoney's room. I
said, "Bob, I can only discuss politics for so long, then it's time to
drink." Guy (from Mudhoney) said hilariously, "Oh no! Have you got a
folksinger in your room?" I said, "Yes. There seems to be an
infestation here."
Mark was
looking for food, so I offered him chili. He asked, "Where on earth did
you get chili?" like it was the miracle of the loaves and fishes. I said,
"I made it" and suddenly became very popular. Luckily, I had
anticipated the presence of many hungry and tired musicians. I met Kerri from
the Red Aunts, and we instantly bonded. She looks at you like everything you
say is the most fascinating thing she has ever heard, so who can resist her?
Eventually
people drifted away full of beer and chili, and we crashed around 3:30 in the
morning.
Saturday Bob and
I took a bus into Rye to have a nice lunch at the Mermaid Inn. The
restaurant was all booked, so we split a meat pie from a bakery and went to a
nearby pub to plot our next move. The Liverpool-West Ham match was on, so the
bar was really rowdy. We decided to sit out on the wisteria-draped patio
instead. As we walked outside, I noticed a sign saying:
PLEASE LEAVE
QUIETLY AND SENSIBLY
I snapped a pic
of it, and had an ale out on the patio. We decided to lunch at the Fish Café,
or failing that, the Runcible Spoon As we were leaving, I stepped on an uneven
paving stone at the top of the steps, and twisted both of my ankles.
I went down hard, all the way to the bottom, and it hurt so much I was rendered
completely speechless. A bunch of guys ran out of the pub, and as I sat
there in the gutter, I thought, "Wow. That fall must have been pretty
impressive to make them abandon the Liverpool match." Not one person
tried to get me to a doctor, but every single one of them wanted to bring me a
beer. You've got to love the English.
We decided to
just get take-away and call a taxi. We went to one of the restaurants
where Paul McCartney eats, called the Ghandi Tandoori. The name struck me as
somewhat ironic for an eating establishment since Ghandi is one of the most famous
non-eaters ever.
Back at Camber
Sands, the medics said I damaged muscles in both ankles, and would need X-rays
if I still couldn't walk the next day. I had to spend the rest of Saturday with
my feet elevated and iced, so no rock and roll for me. I tucked into the Indian food, and it was
fantastic.
Kerri came over
and kept me company for awhile, then some Slovenians came to party all
loaded on Schnapps and hashish. Kerri told me their Schnapps tasted exactly
like spraying Windex directly into your mouth. On their way out, one of them
slipped on the stairs and slammed his head into the railing, which
neccessitated a trip to the emergency room and three stitches. So it was a
pretty busy day, falling-down-stairs-wise.
Later as I sat
there I started "chimping" the photos in my camera. I had to laugh
when I saw the one that said:
PLEASE LEAVE
QUIETLY AND SENSIBLY
I could
walk much better on Sunday. Bob really wanted to see Jandek, so we headed
over to the venue. Jandek was somewhat of a mysterious figure who started
releasing tapes around 1978. He never gave interviews or performed live, and
photos of him were always blurry. Kind of like the Bigfoot of
experimental music. To be kind, his live show was a study in atonality. To be
unkind, it was like all of the borderline self-indulgent moments of Sonic Youth
all strung together to make complete songs.
So I went
upstairs to see Bert Jansh. This was the kind of folksy-festival music on which
I was raised. But the room was pitch-black, smoky and crowded. The teeming throng
was elbow-y, unpleasant, and yapping through the entire set. It just was not
the right environment for that kind of music. I need to see Bert Jansh perform
in a nice sunny field. A field full of wildflowers and prancing woodland
creatures. And faeries dancing in circles. And unicorns.
My ankles were
still sore anyways, so I headed back to the chalet. Bob stumbled in early in
the morning, unsteadily weaving back and forth. This is unusual for Bob, so I
asked, surprised, "Are you drunk, Bob?"
He stretched
out his hand in response, holding the thumb and forefinger about two
inches apart to indicate size. He slurred, "I'm this big."
"You've
shrunk?"
"I've been
sonically reduced."
Bath is one of
the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. Not only does the River Avon run
through it, but the city was designed by a single architect so
that the buildings all flow together instead of the hodge-podge you
find in most cities. The guidebooks tell me it is classic Georgian, but an
architect we met at a dinner party later clarified that since there were three
King Georges, that's kind of a meaningless term. I was really excited to show
the city to Bob, and it was even worth the 6-hour trip to get there on Monday.
We had dinner
at No. 5. The last time I had been through Bath, I had my nose figuratively
pressed up against the window of No. 5, so it was thrilling to actually be able
to eat there. We ordered a rib of beef for two, and they brought us an entire
chateaubriand, plus a rib for good measure. It was a ridiculous amount of meat.
I said, "This is the kind of thing my brother Glen would serve us,"
and I knew that Glen would be immeasurably pleased by that observation.
Half-way through the meal, I felt like we were in "Le Grand Boeuf", a
movie where a group of people decide to eat themselves to death (Which we had
just watched at ATP, courtesy of Mudhoney).
Tuesday we
toured the Roman Baths. At one time it was a temple to Minerva. People used to
scratch curses into lead and throw the metal into the water to summon her
wrath. Some of the ancient curses have been translated, and they
are fantastic in their intensity and pettiness:
"MAY HE
WHO HAS STOLEN VIBLA FROM ME BECOME AS LIQUID AS WATER"
"DOCI
MEDIS HAS LOST TWO GLOVES. HE ASKS THAT THE PERSON WHO HAS STOLEN THEM SHOULD
LOSE HIS MIND AND HIS EYES IN THE TEMPLE WHERE SHE APPOINTS"
You can't
actually bathe in the hot springs (or curse anyone, I would assume). They are
supposed to open a spa nearby called Thermae Bath Spa, but
disappointingly, it still wasn't open during our stay. You can drink a glass of
the water for about 50-pence, but it smells like sulpher and people drinking it
always make the nastiest faces.
We did have
cream tea in the Roman Bath's "Pump Room", another seminal
nose-pressed-against-the-glass experience. It was well worth it just to sit in
the elegant dining room listening to a pianist play Chopin.
We went to an
internet cafe in a pub with live music, and as one of the musicians passed by,
he saw that I was on Myspace and added me as a friend...so this really is a
global phenomenon.
Bob wanted fish
and chips, so we went to a "chippie" called Seafood Fish and Chips.
The "medium" cod was as long as my arm, so we ordered one to split.
Out of curiosity, I ordered a pea fritter. I thought it would be dough studded
with little peas. Ha! It was a big handful of mushy peas, battered and
deep-fried. It was an atrocity.
Even though the
fish was good, it was too greasy for me, so I decided to get a kebab,
(pronounced Keh-BABB) next-door. They take half a pita and fill it with
"doner". No one has yet been able to tell me what donner meat is. It
is meat cooked on a vertical spit, like shwarma. Then they fill it with some
kind of sauce. I had been warned against "chili sauce" so I ordered
"garlic sauce." This actually meant "mayonnaise". I took
about 2 huge bites of mayo before tossing the whole thing over a fence into a
dumpster.
Wednesday it
was raining really hard. We took "The Mad Max Tour". The first stop
was Stonehenge. It was hard not to hear Spinal Tap in my head, "...No one
knows who they were or what they were doing..." The first time I saw
Stonehenge I was very moved. It was almost deserted, and it felt like a
mystical experience. This time it was very crowded, and just kind of
an interesting spectacle.
Our guide told
us that the modern Druids are upset because a replica of Stonehenge will be
built in London. They are angry that it will just be built for financial gain,
for tourists. But no one really knows why Stonehenge was built. Sure, it's
probably an observatory. But how do we know ancient people didn't charge a
dozen eggs, or a sheep to see Stonehenge? Maybe the answer to the mystery
of Stonehenge is that it was the world's first tourist attraction.
Next we went to
the Avebury stone circle. It is better than Stonehenge in a way, because you
can walk around and touch the giant stones. Just try not to walk
in sheep shit. One of the stones is called The Barber Stone because when they
were putting the stones back in their original position, they found a dead
barber under it.
Next we went to
Lacock, which is a village owned by the National Trust. It is all charming and old-fashioned.
We had lunch in a pub there called the George. They have one of the few
remaining "dog wheels" there (not in use of course). It is a large
wheel, like for hamsters, which is attached to a an axle that turns a spit in
the fire. The wheel is really narrow, and they bred special dogs called
"Spit-turns" just for this purpose. They kind of look like
cocker-spaniel weiner dogs. At some point people realized the dogs were not
exactly happy running in such proximity to a giant fire for 5 hours a day,
and public outcry stopped the practice.
The
George had a pretty modern menu for being so charming and old-fashioned
(and for being renowned for a medieval dog torture device). I had a fried
brie salad with a beef and ale pie. Bob had lemon sole. I had an
exceptionally strong ale called 6x, which almost caused me to buy a really
weird cat-toy-looking hat at the shop next-door, but sanity prevailed.
We passed by
two white horses. The hills in that part of England are chalk, so ancient
peoples used to creatively clear the grass from hillsides to make
giant white horses with huge manly parts. Right this way, that will be a dozen
eggs, please.
Our last stop
for the day was Castle Combe, where they filmed the original Dr. Doolittle.
It's very beautiful and picturesque. We ooh-ed and aah-ed and got back on the
bus.
The guide
filled the silence of the long trip back by playing mystical, screedley Celtic
music. "...and oh, how they danced, the little people of
Stonehenge..."
That evening we
decided to eat at a Nepalese restaurant we had been noticing in Bath. I didn't
know when the opportunity to eat Sherpa food would arise again, so I had to try
it. The spice trade (and a brisk potato trade, according to our server)
brought culinary influences from neighboring Tibet, China and
Thailand, making Nepalese an early "fusion" cuisine. It tasted to me
like a mixture of Thai and Indian food. When the waiter repeated our
order, he said, "...and you want Yak Yeti Yak beef?" All of a sudden
I heard the Coasters, "Yakkety Yak, don't talk back!" I started
laughing really hard, because I'd been passing that sign for three days
and had not gotten the joke.
We started with
Momos: “Steamed spiced dumplings (vegetable or pork), served with fresh hemp
seed chutney, a classic dish from the high Himalaya.” We ordered pork
dumplings, and the meat was reminiscent of Lebanese kafta meatballs, heavy with
cilantro and parsley. For main dishes, we ordered Bhutuwa: “Select pieces of
chicken marinated in our own mix of freshly ground spices, and stir-fried with
tomato, onion, garlic, and ginger.” This dish was very similar to Chinese food,
and was my favorite. Also Yak Yeti Yak Beef: “Beef marinated in our own special
blend of spices, then stir-fried with onion, sweet pepper, and tomato.” This
dish reminded us of Thai food. We also had Hario Simi Ra Aloo, “Fresh green
beans and new potatoes stir-fried in our own blend of spices.” This was almost
exactly like Indian food. On the side we had basmati rice (Bhat) and Maasko
Dal: Split black lentil cooked with traditional spices and finished with
Himalayan herbs fried in butter.” This was the one dish that made me make a
moue. The intense butteriness just didn’t seem right. But eaten in combination
with the other foods, it began to make more sense.
The proprieter
walked around greeting people. We talked about how the hippies
"riding the Marrakesh Express" in the 60s influenced cooking in
Nepal. He told me that the hippies introduced the Nepalese to apple tarts, then
they just stopped coming. I said, "Well, then they all saw Midnight
Express" and that was kind of a conversation killer.
England (Part 2)
Monday we grabbed a quick
Baguette Jambon et Gruyere and headed for the Eurostar station. The 3 hour trip
passed quickly, since I had a good book.
I met my ex-room-mate, Debbie, at the station. She came down from Scotland with
her boyfriend to meet us. We had wanted to go to Harrod's, but apparantly the
crowds there had been too much for them the day before, and they needed to
decompress. So we went to our standby, the Troubadour for hamburgers and weird
teas.
We were on the guest list
that night for Mission of Burma at Koko's. Even though I was tired, it would
have been rude to not show up. Even when it started raining. Even when the sole
of my shoe became detached, and started flapping like a hounddog's tongue. We
stopped at a market and I bought some duct tape. We had come this
far, damn it!
Unfortunately, everything
in London starts early so people can catch the Tube home. By the time we got
there at 8:30pm, Mission of Burma was over! The club was nice, so we ordered
beers and watched the beginning of the next band, Broken Social Scene. They are
a "musical collective" of 20 musicians who rotate 5 at a time onto
the stage like a rock and roll volleyball team. Despite the intense cult-like
enthusiasm of the crowd, they were over-produced and predictable, like a
wedding band. The number of band members seems to follow the law of diminishing
returns.
So we left in the middle of
their set and got on the tube. Bob noticed that the guy sitting across from us
had a Mission of Burma backstage pass, so we started talking. He was on his way
to another club across town to see the Mescalitas, a girl group he manages. In
spite of him saying they were kind of green, we decided to tag along. After
all, I already had my nice duct tape on.
As the neighborhood we walked through got creepier and creepier, our new
friend, Andy, said, "This is Jack the Ripper country." I had second
thoughts for the moment about following a complete stranger into the darkness.
Then I thought about how much it would freak out an Englishman if I brought him
around Al's Bar, or Mr T's Bowl late at night, and I relaxed.
Finally we arrived at the Pleasure Unit, which was exactly like Al's Bar. The
first band we saw was really good. And although the Mescalitas were still
"finding their legs" as Andy put it, they still rocked.
Afterwards, we followed the local ritual of a late-night curry. We walked a few
doors down to Curry 2000. The man working behind the counter may have been the
friendliest person we met on the entire trip. We could have hung out all night
chatting with him. I got a samosa drowned in Channa Masala, a spectacularly hot
garbanzo bean curry. Bob got some kind of meat on a skewer (I'd really stopped
wondering what I was eating by this time) that was much milder. Throw in a
couple of Naans, and we were good to go. Man, I wish we had curry like that
back here.
We
crashed around 2 or 3am, and were up at 6am to catch our flight. We bought lots
of chocolate and a bottle of absinthe at the duty-free, and flew off happily
into the wild blue yonder.
The Troubadour 263-267 Old Brompton Road London SW5 9JA 020 7370
1434
St. Johns 26
St. John Street London EC1M 4AY 020 7251 0848
St.
Moritz 161 Wardour Street London W1V 3TA
020 7734 3324 161
Ghandi Tandoori 32-34 Cinque Ports Street, Rye, East Sussex
01797223091
No. 5 Bistro 5 Argyle Street, Bath 01225 444499
Pump Room, Stall Street
Seafoods Traditional Fish and Chips Kingsmead Square, Bath
The George Inn Lacock NR, Chippenham, Wiltshire 01249 730263
Yak Yeti Yak 12 Argyle Street, Bath 01225 442299
Mad Max Tours 01225 464323 www.madmaxtours.co.uk